


Malalignment

by Tohje



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (duh), Angst, Cody is there every now and then but I want to respect the character tag, Dissociative Identity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Estranged Idiots to Lovers at Wartime, HEED THE TAGS: THE WAR DOES HORRIBLE THINGS TO PEOPLE, Jinnobi Challenge 2019, M/M, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Some war-related violence, The same goes for Anakin, This is actually not as grim as it sounds but I'm not taking any chances with the triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Yoda is the worst, clone wars au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-24 00:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tohje/pseuds/Tohje
Summary: The first time is a pure coincidence, all parties could swear it on their deathbeds. The pelta frigate GRS-20 - informally Generosity - is a huge, maze-like, rusting piece of a stronghold with multiple medical wards and cantinas. It is a sheer stroke of luck that 212th and the River Company are accommodated in the adjacent, overstuffed compartments and share the same cantina for their short recuperation periods.There is no thing such as luck, or coincidence, only war (and the Force, according to the Jedi).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEED THE TAGS, PLEASE: THE WAR DOES HORRIBLE THINGS TO PEOPLE!
> 
> LuvEwan: thank you for giving this useful read throughs, and for your friendship, enthusiasm and kindness!
> 
> antheiasilva: me and my English wouldn't survive without you. :D Thank you for your precise read throughs, conversations and insights! 
> 
> outpastthemoat: thank you for your enthusiasm!

\--- to all its forgiveness, unlocked the sternum’s

door, reversed and reshaped until it was a new

bright carnal species, more accustomed to grief,

and ecstatic at the sight of you. 

Ada Limón, _ Adaptation _ in _ Bright Dead Things _

The first time is a pure coincidence, all parties could swear it on their deathbeds. The pelta frigate GRS-20 - informally _Generosity _\- is a huge, maze-like, rusting piece of a stronghold with multiple medical wards and cantinas. It is a sheer stroke of luck that 212th and the River Company are accommodated in the adjacent, overstuffed compartments and share the same cantina for their short recuperation periods.

There is no thing such as luck, or coincidence, only war (and the Force, according to the Jedi).

He watches General Kenobi eating on the second last day of their stay here. He has never seen a man doing that simple task with that much stoicism. It’s one duty for General among countless others. His meal could be straight from the shinies’ handbook, from the opening that walks through the perfect meal planning for your coping and stamina in the service. 

Who? Him? He is a face. They can call him that, Face. It doesn’t matter if they forget it, because General never does. He remembers everyone’s names, like he remembers to eat regularly in front of his men. He is Face in the sea of faces, and nothing sets him apart, except for one thing: he watches General Kenobi.

Everyone watches the General, of course. He is theirs. Face is just doing it under official orders; Marshal Commander would like to be on his side at every turn, but he is the Marshal Commander of GAR, trusted by none other than General Kenobi, and a great many things require his attention. 

He doesn’t know if General knows, if Commander has actually told him. It never occurred to him to ask. Commander wanted Face to feel useful again, and hitting two flies with one slap is his favorite outcome. 

So, Face watches him eating the day the River Company arrives, General fulfilling his joyless task at the quieter end of the long benches of the cantina. There’s this...Face hates to call it an aura, so let’s call it a barrier, around General Obi-Wan Kenobi. Every Jedi has it, in his limited experience, although General Kenobi’s is more solid and wider than any other Face has witnessed. He can actually see how beings who approach him know to stop at a respectful distance - Commander is an exception, sometimes. Even General Skywalker has to push whenever he wants to get through. He does it with much flailing, if you ask Face’s opinion.

The River Company comes in with so much noise and rush that you can tell Someone Important, maybe several Importants, are in need of the medical. It piques everyone’s attention, naturally.When two troopers emerge at the entrance, with a strong waft of old sweat and covered by yellow dust, supporting the tall, humanoid Jedi, no one looks at their own General. The hurt Jedi is a source of quiet murmurs and glances for the men. His pauldron is missing, revealing the artificial, charred chest plate - the second cybernetic Face has ever seen a Jedi wearing, after General Skywalker’s arm - and his head is covered in bandages, which are soaked through and downright filthy. His eyes are unfocused above the poorly healed, crooked nose. 

General Kenobi drops his fork on his lap. Face doesn’t think anyone else notices except him. 

General’s posture is always flawless, but in this moment, his spine could be carved from stone.

By the time the troopers are half-way through the cantina with their Jedi, who is now hanging limply between them but still conscious, General has already recovered. He rises, sets the fork on the table with care, and moves towards the limping trio. He offers a polite “Excuse me, captain,” and takes the captain’s place under the tall Jedi’s arm.

Face can’t tell which one of the General's subsequent acts surprises him more. He _ touches _someone like that: moves the tall Jedi’s long, mud covered hair aside, and whispers something to the other Jedi. If Face hadn’t have to learn how to lip-read after Ryloth, he would have missed it - the mechno-aid in his ear is overwhelming in the noisy cantina and he had shut it off.

“Master,” General Kenobi breathes.

Outside the battlefield, their General is a man of patterns, and these acts are definitely breaking the pattern.

***

_ Head traumas always bleed like they are Sith-cursed_, Obi-Wan has to remind himself. 

It’s ridiculous. He _ knows _this. It’s not like he hasn’t seen this many times. It’s not even something that registers that much. Head wounds just are nightmarishly messy. It’s nothing he should concern himself with.

This is nothing he should concern himself with, except maybe he should comm the man’s former padawan. Anakin would want to know. Even after Qui-Gon’s disgrace, even after their very public clashing. 

Yet another thing he shouldn’t, cannot concern himself with: the talk of the state of his former master.

Qui-Gon’s cybernetic pectoral is crusted with mud, the same side sleeve missing; the mark of the rank gone, ripped off.

Obi-Wan didn’t understand the man’s choice then, the Council’s leniency, the shrinking from the responsibilities, but that’s a years’ old condition, older than this war, stagnated and buried. Nothing new under the myriad of suns. 

It’s not like he was around to ask.

He sits on the chair, fists clenched on his knees. He takes a breath, blinks, opens his hands. 

He doesn’t rise to get his comm. The device, sitting innocuously on the night table, could just as well reside in the middle of the electromagnetic field. 

Obi-Wan looks around, _ not _ looking for a substitute, spots the cloth instead and wets it in the sink. The water is lukewarm, recycled, meant only for the medical. _ A simple act of kindness_, he tells himself, wringing the extra water out. _ You would do this for any man. _

He wipes the dust and dried mud from his former master’s ears, then from what little is visible of his hair. It takes time, the clay caked. He likes to think he keeps his touch impersonal. The water gets a sick, yellow hue. He has to use a slight, careful pressure to get the dirt and blood out from the deep lines on the man’s forehead. 

He doesn’t remember those lines. 

Then again, there are days when _ everything _outside the field seems to belong to the past even as it occurs, separated from him by the blur of (non-existing) years. The field is always sharp, the field gives a sense of the ever present now, of timelessness; an enormous, strategic puzzle under the chaos.

The problem is that he fails to solve the puzzle for good, and the suffering and dying continue. His mistakes gather unerringly around him in these rare regrouping days, like a susurring miasma.

His personal failings aside, he knows men desperately need these days. 

Qui-Gon’s eyelids flutter. The clear, glacier blue flashes between them, although bloodshot; a sight so familiar-saddening that Obi-Wan jerks the cloth away. 

Qui-Gon, before he is anywhere near fully out of the sedative, asks after five of his men by name - “Catty? Jax? Bowser? Petra? Petrik?” - and in depressing accuracy, Qui-Gon’s captain shakes his head every time a few med beds over. “Rudder?” Qui-Gon calls next, feebly. “Here, sir,” the captain answers from his own cot.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan tells him quietly.

Uncertainty and hope wash over the older man’s face. Qui-Gon turns his head from one side to the other, squints despite the low fluorescent lights of the medical bay, and then visibly winces.

“Anakin?” The second after the gaze clears, hope changes to confusion. “Obi-Wan?” 

“Mind your occiput, Commander Jinn,” he offers and stands up. His battalion is moving out tomorrow; Cody can handle the logistics in his sleep, backwards and in Huttese, but he needs to be there, yes, to check the calculations and meeting plans with 501st, and to inspect the incoming cargo, to sign things off. 

A hand darts up, captures his bracer. “Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says again, emphasizing each letter of his name.

Obi-Wan swallows, dry and small, sits back down, looks aside, the answering words suddenly a puzzle rivaling this war.

***

Commander is back. Face watches still, from the corner of his eye; once the habit is rooted, it’s good to keep himself vigilant, up to date with the situation. 

Face is aware that Commander too watches two Jedi, from the other side of the cantina. It makes him curious, just a bit. 

General may be making a point with his eating, but he is never present at the first meal. He doesn’t _ bother _himself with the first meal, not even with a cup of that foul herb water he seems so fond of; more often than not, he is on the move from the early hours. Except now, it seems; General sits at the table, back ramrod straight, head bent. He stares at the steaming mug in front of him, a look on his face like the liquid has committed a war crime (which, for General, is a slight frown and thinning of his lips).

The tall, older Jedi sitting opposite him - the one with the peculiar position, Face has learned - is the deliberate epitome of mildness against the General’s vexation. His bandages are clean now, his eyes are still puffy and infected looking. He wears simple tunics from the medical ward, loose and shapeless even for his broad frame. Somewhat cleaned, the long hair is mostly silver. 

Face knows, after the night of gossiping and reunions, that the Company’s last campaign went off the rails and for the vultures’ faster than a senator can make a war donation disappear into the Republic’s bureaucratic machinery. It still baffles Face that the tall Jedi is commanding a Company, no matter how mismatched, when their General called him a master. 

The tall Jedi says something, softly beneath the bustle of cantina. He pushes a plate of loaves vaguely resembling uj cakes across the table. General smiles, there and gone in a flash, his lips even thinner. The smile doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes.

His brother nudges Face with his elbow; chortling begins around him, and he loses his concentration and doesn’t know if the General actually answers anything to another Jedi. They think he has a crush on General, his brothers. He doesn’t bother to correct them. He can do his duty without questions that way. By the time he looks around again, the General has gotten up and is marching toward Commander, his orders brisk, everything on his face in place. The tall Jedi has vanished from the table, his movements eerily quiet for an injured man.

Face doesn’t see either of them again before _Negotiator _is in the last stages of loading their cargo, everybody moving around with containers, running some last minute errands, or standing around looking a little dazed. Face lowers the ration bar box to the floor in the middle of the open cargo hold. The bridge is running test drives for _Negotiator’s _on-planet engines, and the racket in _Generosity’s _hangar is deafening. General is standing at the top of the ramp with Commander, unruffled by the noise and the blows of gust, studying three datapads simultaneously, when the other Jedi approaches them. He has thrown a poncho, conjured from gods only know where, over his medical tunics, and it billows in the engine wind. General eyes the clothing of the approaching man, raises his eyebrows for some reason, turns and says something to Commander. Commander nods, gathers the datapads and moves a short distance away. His face is blank. 

The tall Jedi moves through General’s barriers gracefully, merely jutting his jaw out for a moment.

General and the other Jedi don’t talk, it looks like from where Face is standing. Face knows he can’t linger much longer; the work is not something that ever runs dry in the apiary that is _ Negotiator. _ The Jedi stand side by side, looking at the black canvas of space unfolding behind _ Generosity’ _s gravitation field at the opening ship hatches. 

The last thing Face glimpses, before Lieutenant calls him, is the tall Jedi turning to face General, a rare intense feeling for Jetii - worry? - flashing on his face. General’s eyes widen, but he nods shortly, emphatically, before he disengages and turns his back, walking towards Commander again.


	2. Chapter 2

Obi-Wan stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back. It’s a private space, and late at night in this planet’s cycle, but he doesn’t want to put the the General down. He is heavy to pick up again, but once he is on, Obi-Wan barely notices him. It’s not worth all the hassle to disrobe in the middle of the campaign, his body and mind molded and adapted. 

The curtains of heavier, warm rain move across the calm sea water. The clouds hang low. The windows are soundproof, but he knows the rain makes a hissing sound while hitting the ocean surface. He knows Anakin is out there, somewhere on the landing dock. His tall figure disappeared behind the veil of rain a while ago. All these years, all these worlds, all these campaigns, and that much water still piques Anakin’s interest. It helps him meditate a little better, the water, Anakin tells him. Obi-Wan knows Qui-Gon has used that before, in the past, to calm down the boy’s emotions. Cool Spring for Clear Thoughts, if he remembers correctly.

It’s funny how the mud always follows the water, was all Anakin had to say in the present day, and they had smiled ruefully at each other.

Obi-Wan hasn’t told him about his meeting with Qui-Gon on _ Generosity_. They don’t have a place for that kind of conversation, he and his brother-padawan, not here.

Some campaigns resist and dig their proverbial heels into the ground every step of the way. Obi-Wan has had that feeling about Tion from the start (there isn’t supposed to be such a thing as ‘feeling’ in the war, only strategies and the Force.) For one thing, this is a stealth campaign,working under the radar at the very heart of the Separatist space, and that means reining in his brother-padawan. Neither group of men, his or Anakin's, are used to fighting in such extremely nautical conditions.

An even more pressing problem is the unmapped civilian raft villages, centered around the various movable platforms and rigs; Tion’s ocean floors hide valuable ores, gas and oil. Due to their nomadic nature, several of them float along the forthcoming battle lines. Lines they just can’t breach through blasters blazing, because, again, Anakin, _ stealth _mission. 

He knows what he is supposed to do, which company he is supposed to call in. It’s their speciality. The data, the reports blinking sleepily on large, bluish screens behind him, reflecting from the streaked windows, make it abundantly clear. 

He has never abused his position as a newly-elected Councillor, and he is not about to start. He hasn’t requested these files before, not once, and the_ only _ reason he has done so now is Tion. It has nothing to do with the completely unrelated fact that since _ Generosity_, there has been a shapeless, nameless feeling in his dreams, bothersome in its insistence.

He had thought it went away years ago. 

_ Why is he worried? Why in the Force’s name he is worried _ ** _now_**_, after everything? _

Obi-Wan closes doors, quietly and rudely, at people’s faces every time they worry about him. He is _fine_, and they could spend their time so much more usefully. Qui-Gon, worried about him - the thought makes his throat feel tight. He doesn't want this from anyone, not anymore, and now Qui-Gon had to go and - 

The General has no use for distractions like that. He puts them off; later. _ Later, _Obi-Wan thinks, isn’t going to be big enough after the war is over. It will swell and fill the air with venomous fumes. 

He might even be too hollowed and honed for death before _ later _comes. As he lies awake, he fancies that he can hear it, the faint scratching when layer after layer peels off from him. 

To be General is to be forged into an efficient weapon. 

It's futile, self-pitying imaginary. It’s not rooted in the here and now, and Obi-Wan despises that he needed galaxy-wide catastrophe for him to learn to live in the present, and present only. He is the weapon, calm, cutting so that others won't have to; that's how he serves. 

The thunder flashes, soundlessly, above the open. He turns on his heels and clasps his hands tighter together behind his back. He faces the large, floating blue screens, the reports, draws a short in-take breath and starts to read. 

The River Company under his former master is, uniquely, specialized in handling civilians and refugees left behind after heavy warfare, the post-battle clean-up campaigns. It’s an ungrateful duty. The outcome is less than satisfying every time. Nobody sings their praises in public; instead they are a perfect target for anger and loathing born out of losses, after the attack troops have long moved on. 

The Company is filled with clones that Kamino and other facilities had deemed unfitting to serve, mostly due to some permanent injury. Obi-Wan wonders if Qui-Gon can guarantee that they don’t put others, and themselves, at risk in joint operations, or if the thought has even crossed his mind. They look like a band of misfits with uniforms: eyepatches, homemade looking braces, their commander with their chest piece, the seam sharp and visible from beneath his light armor. 

He remembers the first time he saw that prosthetic. His master had looked alien, drowning in tubes, his assisted lungs rising and falling, rising and falling. 

The General scratches his neck. This isn’t useful. 

Most of the Generals under whom the Company has served - and there are startlingly many, Obi-Wan notices, the Company clearly in high demand - give carefully worded reports, detached and impersonal even for the Jedi. Few of them even display badly hidden discomfort alongside the approvals. 

Jedi Commander: a position for padawans under their masters, and in their masters’ battalion. A position so high up in the command chain, and yet so low, means all the danger in the field and none of the decision-making. Obedience and loyalty are expected, as usual in the padawan’s training, but much more unquestionably, because this is _ war, _and war breeds into utter chaos if the chain of command is broken. Cultivating independent thinking in padawans isn’t popular in the Order nowadays; behind all the rhetoric and assigning padawans, lies apprehension, Obi-Wan suspects. They are putting their future, the future of the Order, on the line. And they fear for it, no matter how much they try to deny it.

They are forging their future into something that is unknown. 

Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship had its...bumps and obstacles, but the demand of_ blind _ obedience was the farthest thing from Qui-Gon’s tutelage. 

Then there’s Qui-Gon. Stepped down, still independent, on a quest around the Galaxy.

Then there's Qui-Gon, cleaning after their messes. 

Anakin understands Qui-Gon’s self-demotion even less than Obi-Wan does. He hadn’t had to actually born witness to their master turning his back and abandoning everything for his durasteel ideals before, when the possibility of war wasn’t even a distant whisper in the Force. From Anakin’s point of view, Qui-Gon gives away his position and power, a chance to make a difference, a chance for heroic deeds and to be where it truly matters, where he could end the suffering. 

And so Obi-Wan has reached the first file at the end of the long line, the very first record of the Council meeting considering Qui-Gon Jinn just after the war was declared. _ Demotion of a former master, Jinn, Qui-Gon, identification number 1566XWJ999P/2/13/5208. _

The screen blinks, blue, indifferent. Obi-Wan makes a small gesture with his fingers, and it shuts down, the file unopened, leaving the room in darkness and rain.

***

** _The River Commander’s private log, entry 222_ **

_ For a short while, we were within the reach of a Republic holonet broadcast. Men had the transmission on in the mess. They really are the faces of this war, my padawans, on every possible channel. A strange quirk of the Force, considering that some might say that I’m on the opposite side of this atrocity. _

_ Anakin. Even through the screen, corona of glory flared around him, intense, barely controlled, the war - and badly held secrets - suit him. The Hero With No Fear. Being Jedi isn’t the same as being hero, I tried to teach over and over again. Being Jedi is a sacrifice for the people, at the service of the Force. I thought he had accepted that. _

_ I don’t know what that failure makes me nowadays, as his former master. I don’t know what it makes this Order. Still, still Anakin cares so much. _

_ And Obi-Wan, always next to him. He has been from the start, every time he was back to the Temple, that achingly bright boy between us like a magnet pole. _

_ On nights when the screaming gets intolerable, I sometimes cast my mind wide like a fishing net, searching for his light, for both of their lights. They are always too far, of course; it’s a vast Galaxy and a vast war. _

_ Obi-Wan's light was razor-edged through the small screen, even more so in reality, I now know. So tightly aimed and poised; it’s more of a spear, a blur of a defensive weapon in the hands of a combat master. Nothing gets through. _

_ I ran from that light even before this war transformed it. You don’t get attached to your padawan’s light like that in the Order, and although it’s more meaningless every day, what the Order dictates and doesn’t dictate, I like to think I know Obi-Wan. For him, the Order is - used to be, at least - the pillar and the ridge, to lean on and walk on. _

_ The recovery was slow. He was away most of the years, fulfilling his promise. I could turn my back, focus on Anakin and keep walking (running wasn’t an option for a long time). _

_ Force help me now that he has called me to their aid. _


	3. Chapter 3

The second time is not a coincidence, but a maneuver. 

Face stands in parade rest on the temporary headquarters’s tarmac among his brothers. The sea wind stings his eyes. _Freshwater _has performed a hyperspace jump disconcertingly close to the planet surface to avoid Separatists’ attention. LAAT/is are arriving in schedule. Everything is running smoothly for a change, no klaxons telling them everything has, once again, gone to hells. 

The River Company descends the ramps, all men in sight at once unlike on _ Generosity, _ unusual details catching an eye here and there. Face realizes something that causes an uncomfortable jolt in his stomach.

_ That could be his company. _ If their General had been almost anyone else. If Face had been extremely lucky, and had run into them for one reason or another after Ryloth. 

All Jedi are their men’s. But Commander Jinn is theirs in a way that is mixed with a sense of struggling with self-worth, and with a sense of over-prolonged, gifted time. 

The Jedi in question emerges on the ramp, silver hair braided, and pauses to stretch, clearly feeling the hyperspace in his joints, cyber and otherwise. Face can sympathize; the jumps cause pressure and an odd ringing in his otherwise deadened ears, aid or no aid. The tall Jedi squints against the sunlight ricocheting from the sea’s surface, his chin raised. In contrast, and in unison, both Generals waiting to welcome him stiffen. 

General Skywalker had been against this plan, vehemently and loudly; there were very few men on the dock not aware of the fact. Face knows that the more annoyed General Kenobi becomes, the quieter he gets, and that quietness aggravates General Skywalker like nothing else. The General’s quietness becomes yet another barrier, and Skywalker pushes and pushes. 

By the time Commander Jinn reaches the other two, and they all bow to each other, they are again - they themselves surely like to think - inscrutable and mysterious, these Jetii. General Skywalker talks very little, clearly leaving this to Kenobi. Their General gets an intense look on his face as they are moving inside, his speech low and precise. Then Jinn’s voice carries over the wind, loud and clear in Face’s aid, clarifying some detail: “Are these your orders?” 

The flock of scaled gulls takes a sudden flight behind General, their voices shrill. Skywalker looks at both of them sharply. General narrows his eyes. “Yes,” he confirms, clasping his hands behind his back. “These are my _ orders. _”

They vanish inside, into the dimness of the caves which reek of seaweed, away from the brisk wind and sunlight yapping at their heels. For a few steps’ duration, their sedate Jedi pace is offbeat. 

A certain look sets on General’s face; Face knows he won’t be watching General for a while, because Commander won’t leave his side, in or off field. Face - and all his brothers - also know that they will be out there sooner rather than later. 

***

A pan-galactic war is an excellent place to hide if you want to avoid a certain individual. Narrow it down to one campaign, one planet, and Obi-Wan Kenobi is relearning old habits. For example, he relearns to curb a wince as he hears the familiar sound on the other side of the comm, brogue and emphases and pauses; traces which he had once been fluent in reading.

Inevitably, there comes a day, not far down in the campaign, as the comm connection shuts off in the middle of the morning briefing. Blaster fire and cursing are the last transmitted sounds. (His master didn’t use to curse, not that loosely and creatively, so that’s definitely new.) Anakin’s voice calls them both, and Obi-Wan tries to find words, any words. But then the abandoned outpost, enclosed in the middle of the destroyed coral reef, is revealed to be not totally abandoned after all. They have to get the droids down fast and silently before any warning signal gets out and their presence on Tion is compromised. The General’s focus snaps back to the here and now. He doesn’t let it waver, doesn’t let his hands shake on the hilt as he draws the protective blue circle in front of his men. 

Stealth missions are Shadow work, skulking and sneaking and attacking from behind; like battle flying, Obi-Wan now excels in something that tells him uncomfortable things about himself. 

Anakin loathes this campaign with the intensity of a small sun, partly for the same reasons. How it drags on and on and on, keeping him away from his padawan and his - as a Councillor, Obi-Wan’s thoughts stop there. And that was even before Qui-Gon came along. The war, though, has taught Anakin something both their former master and Obi-Wan himself have failed to instill - Anakin knows how to compromise now, at least sometimes, at least after a lot of convincing.

The war has taught Councillor Kenobi to look the other way.

His men are installing the red herring message droid in place as the comm crackles back to life. The River Company’s mission went well. The skirmish convinced the civilian rafts to move their location much more effectively than his former master’s silver tongue could have done.

Obi-Wan imagines, no, knows that the relief in his voice is too naked. He keeps his confirmation and orders curt. Their task forces return to the caves roughly at the same time, Anakin’s troops already welcoming them; he settles for watching afar. The salt has formed a white, coarse crust on Qui-Gon’s beard and hair. He seems fine.

The caves are vast, but not nearly vast enough for two battalions’ commandos and a company of men. They are slowly and secretly laying siege to Tion’s sole larger Separatist garrison, cutting off the smaller outposts one by one, setting up hoax messages and disabling the comm towers. Due the lack of space, there’s no way of hiding his limp either from Qui-Gon or Anakin when they return from one such mission. It’s just a scratch, just a slip, the sea salt just more potent in a wound than he assumed. The General doesn’t divide his attention in the field to heal himself if it’s not absolutely necessary. He can always do it later. 

Anakin rolls his eyes at him, unimpressed, joining in Cody’s good company. He turns back to the caves, already hollering for Kix. Obi-Wan raises his gaze, grimacing inwardly, and meets Qui-Gon’s eyes almost by accident. Qui-Gon’s hair is unbraided for the first time Obi-Wan has seen during this mission, in disarray, like he would have arrived at the cave entrance in a hurry. The silver is not so prominent that way. 

_ < --- much easier when there were a thousand parsecs between us.> _

Clear as day, ringing in his mind like a brass ship bell. Like the years standing between them were domino pieces instead of latched doors. Like the last time when that pathway in the Force was utilized - before Yoda cut his braid and sanctified his new saber as knight’s weapon - would have been something else than static. His master was alive; that had been only and last piece of information the master-padawan bond had given him, before the one-sided unraveling executed by the whole Council. He had sat beside Qui-Gon afterwards, well into the night, counting the machine-induced breaths. Then he had risen, and had left for his first independent mission as a knight. He had closed himself off from the knowledge which the cadence of his former master’s breath had beaten into him.

He had heard three months later, in passing, that Qui-Gon had survived the surgery. He had collapsed in his small cabin, shaking and puking his guts out for someone who had cast him aside, and had then run ahead, alone.

On Tion, Obi-Wan’s anger spikes; embarrassing, unexpected guest who knows him from the time he was younger and unrefined.

“You don’t need to concern yourself. It’s not your place, Commander.” He bites the words out, blames the wound for his scathing tone. _ I can’t stand you worrying about me, not now, not anymore. _ And that’s a thought he _ won’t _ let escape his shields, because apparently they like to turn into a sponge in the company of Qui-Gon Jinn, so he _ slams _them shut. 

Qui-Gon breaks the eye contact. 

“Of course,” he replies, bows his head. “My apologies. I’m...not sure what happened. That was clumsy of me.”

Just a slip from Qui-Gon’s part too. Obi-Wan bows back, as long as his leg allows. They wait for the medic in silence, which means they let the murmur of the sea and the hum of tired men wash over them, let them cover their blunders. 

Later in the night, after he has ignored Kix’s orders to stay put on the cot, he roams the cliff roof spreading over the caves. The General excuses the straining of the wound by checking that all their lights are out of sight, their smokes dispersed, their guards hidden accordingly. The night is clouded, the wind warm but restless. He falls into a light meditative trance while walking (hobbling). He knows he avoids sleep, avoids the feeling in his dreams he has tried to walk away from, has tried to ignore and release since cutting of his braid and the unraveling of their bond.

How do you release the absence of something? 

It should never be done like that. But he had been cast aside already, and he knew his master’s will to train the boy, and it couldn’t be fulfilled otherwise. Yoda himself had had sorrow in his eyes. Unraveling a bond by death was far worse, they reminded him, and he knew this to be true, having witnessed a few lost beings’ agony after such separation. To crave that last connection nonetheless was the attachment of worst kind.

He truly had thought it went away years ago. The field, the constant fight, the-here-and-now-only had hidden it from him, and he had latched onto that illusion.

The General is displeased. The re-emergence of their bond is disruptive, divides his attention. If looking away isn’t efficient enough, he must take steps to erase the variable from the equation. 

It has a name. He just refuses to accept it. The absence, the yawning gap in his dreams, the feeling Qui-Gon’s arrival has evoked: homesickness after the longest, most tiring campaign.

***

** _The River Commander’s private log, entry 225_ **

_ Obi-Wan has asked me to meditate with him. _

_ Written out like that, it doesn’t look like much of anything. _

_ Jedi are reclusive beings by nature in our connection to the Force (or what there is left of connection, now that the darkness spreads and shrouds.) Initiates are guided, and a master shepherds a padawan. There are some rituals and annual celebrations that require group meditating. Members of the team can strengthen their connection that way. But if we think about a Jedi’s whole lifespan, most of it is spent in solitary, deeply private connection. _

_ To ask someone to meditate with you is a layered thing. It can be a sign of deep trust between friends or in the lineage. It can signify a need to solve something between the participants. It can aim at combining two differing skills. It can be a cry for help. It can mark disharmony and unbalance, as well as the need of closer connection and resolution. It is an exclamation mark as well as a colon. _

_ With Obi-Wan, “layered” doesn’t even begin to cover it. _

_And yet, I find myself desperately drawn to the mere possibility of the closeness of his light. To be allowed to selfishly bask in it, as sharp as it is nowadays. The Living Force is so...drained now. Ever-screaming. He is one of the very few things which hasn’t_ _diminished in the slightest in these torn, violent years. _

_ His light is one rare, coherent memory from the weeks and months of fragmentation that was the beginning of my recovery. There, on my bedside, a solace, and a treasure worth running ahead and protecting, even out of attachment. And gone very soon, to the duty and life of a knight. Set free to independence, like a master should do for a padawan. _

_ Set apart, and stayed apart. I had acted foolishly; the least I could do was to respect his decision. _

_ *** _

Obi-Wan realizes that he is clenching his jaw as Qui-Gon approaches him between campfires. There are blessedly few wounded around the low fires, the men enthusiastically sharing larger food rations than usual: the siege is almost complete, and Obi-Wan had ordered bigger portions for the last three evenings before the attack. He forces his teeth not to grind with the conscious effort. 

It disrupts the duty. He asked for this himself. It has to stop. They had to make it stop. Like breaking misaligned bones to make them heal properly.

Qui-Gon stops at the fringe of the campfire light, questions in his eyes. In addition to his voice, Obi-Wan is apparently relearning other little tics and tells as well. The fires paint stark contrasts on the walls of the caves and on Qui-Gon’s face. The smells of smoke, seaweed and unwashed bodies cling to their clothes and hair and everyone’s armor. 

Obi-Wan rises from the stone floor, winces a little from the dull pain in his lower back - something he wouldn’t have noticed a year or two ago - and he has to resist the urge to click his tongue when both Cody and Qui-Gon frown at him. He sets his mug carefully on the ground. The caf will go cold, but it would be a waste to throw it away among the rest, if this doesn't work out between them. 

“I will be close by,” he murmurs to Cody, who cocks his eyebrow. “I’ll have my comm with me.”

“ Jetii business, sir?” Cody asks, his tone not saying much one way or another, and that, in itself, is like a poem or koan. 

“Esoteric nonsense,” he drily confirms. “Your words sir, not mine,” Cody agrees serenely and turns to tend the fire. 

He feels Anakin’s eyes drilling into his back across the main cave all the way to the mouth of the caves.


	4. Chapter 4

The third time is a collision.

There’s a deep lagoon on the right side of the caves’ main entrance, surrounded by the looming rocks, still and trapped under the industrialized Tion moons; the low tide cuts the lagoon off from the main source. The troops’ water purifiers make gurgling sounds, lined along the makeshift wooden jetty. 

“Do you prefer this place?”

Obi-Wan straightens his back. He had been leaning over one of the pieces of equipment that was making a funny, strangled noise, checking its circulation. His lower back twinges again, faintly, and he is grateful for the passing, small cloud in front of the moons.

_ You asked for this yourself. _

Bones re-ossified wrong; his past, their past, his clinging, his homesickness when Jedi’s home is the Galaxy. 

His war-sized duty on which he can’t focus when he is like this. 

“This is fine,” he agrees. The jetty creaks as they settle down, facing each other. Their knees are touching lightly, their palms resting on their thighs. For a while, the only sounds are the small waves playing around the dock posts. 

“What should we concentrate on?” Qui-Gon asks at last. It's ridiculous how Obi-Wan feels like Qui-Gon still towers over him, even when they are sitting in meditation pose. “It has been...years.”

Years of polite silence, polite evading, politely avoiding actual dojos and corridors.

“Absence. Letting go of absence,” Obi-Wan says and closes his eyes. He hears Qui-Gon’s robes rustling a little, then silence again. Old things, ancient really, dug-up bones; he fully expects Qui-Gon to frown in confusion and ask what this is all about, how can a Knight cling to a past this way; the present moment is all there is. 

He doesn’t. 

The meditation doesn’t work either.

For his part, it’s because he is...ashamed. He is a renowned General who has carried this one, stubbornly unacknowledged thing all these years, like an insatiable tick on the back of his neck. Such a failure for a Jedi. He tries to open the doors and latches in his mind, he does, but to let this man see him like this is intolerable. 

He has no idea what Qui-Gon keeps from him - disappointment, resignation, confirmation of the man’s doubts in the first place? - but he can sense his former master’s unrest in the Force next to him. He wants to duck and take cover. He’s too exposed like this. 

Two large, calloused fingers touch the pinched corner of his eye, lightly, lightly. Obi-Wan’s eyes fly open in surprise. 

“You are exhausted,” Qui-Gon says, his voice low. Then, as if continuing the conversation they were decidedly _ not _having earlier, “I... was careless. Cruel. It was rightly your decision. You were blazing in your new life.”

Obi-Wan forgets how to breathe, how to function, how to either lean away or lean into; he barely kneels there, frozen in his place. 

“What was my decision?” he asks, his voice as thin as the reedy evening wind. His men wouldn’t know it’s him.

“To sever the connection.” Qui-Gon exhales; the fingers, their touch on Obi-Wan’s cheek. “You are...right there. It’s hard to believe. I know this wasn’t your first choice.”

“I...They said it was the only way. He said. Only way for both of us survive, for you to claim Anakin in the first place. That you had already practically disowned - your survival hung by the thread, and that my dependency even after my Trials would jeopardize -” 

The bones wail under pressure; Obi-Wan can feel them, feel the fine-drawn fractures spreading. 

“Who said? Yoda told me, after months, that you have seen through my foolishness, and had decided to do the right thing. The only possible thing.” Qui-Gon’s voice is dangerous, the growl of the gathering but distant thunder, his eyes grey-blue and flat.

It hits Obi-Wan: it’s like when you raise your head in the middle of the battle, ears deaf, and you can comprehend absolutely nothing - from the weapon in your hand to the spaceships exploding - of what’s going on around you, and you look with empty eyes at the Galaxy gone mad.

“Yoda,” he whispers. “Told me. And...and I asked the Council myself, afterwards, when I couldn’t bring myself to...even when I knew he spoke the truth…”

Qui-Gon’s hold on his cheek firms, spasm-like, and his brewing storm is released, released, released. Obi-Wan closes his eyes against it; it feels like being under an onslaught. The first latches clink open, one by one, and he doesn’t have _ control; _ the words gush out from his mouth like they have nothing to do with his actual will. 

“It is all on me, after that. You had a new padawan, your recovery was so slow and unsure, I --- I didn’t want to assume. They kept me away most of the time. I haven’t had permanent quarters in the Temple in years.”

Qui-Gon swallows, the click disproportionately loud in the quiet.

“It’s not. All on you. I wanted to believe him. You had every right, after how I behaved.”

An image, memory, offered to him. An offer of connection like he hasn't experienced, allowed himself to crave in years and years. Anakin offers his fierce loyalty, his companionship, his enormous strength, but he has never asked Obi-Wan to connect with him, to understand. He doesn’t need Obi-Wan for that. Obi-Wan suspects Anakin thinks Obi-Wan is not capable of that. 

He might not have been completely wrong, but now the first bones break. It hurts, his mind calcified.

_ Lying awake at night, the Temple humming with life around you. Your young padawan in the next room, soundly asleep, scintillating, difficult, shunned, brilliant, prideful, rewarding. Your tissues yet unsure how to react to the cybernetics this time around, on the brink of rebellion but not quite there, as tired of fighting as you yourself are. _

_ Absence. Like you had lost some other organ too, or your mammalian ability to keep yourself warm. _

_ You don’t know how to let go of that warmth, something so fundamental for surviving. _

Obi-Wan makes a noise he doesn’t recognize and sways, without a trace of grace or finesse. Qui-Gon’s chest plate smothers the rest of the sounds. It’s not an embrace, not for a long time. Two of them just fall forward and collide into each other. There’s a _ thump thump thump _under Obi-Wan’s ear, more elevated than he remembers.

When Qui-Gon finally raises his arms and embraces him, Obi-Wan can feel his hands in fists, spasming on Obi-Wan’s back. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, inhales. Beneath everything, unwashed bodies, sea’s fish-smell and leather, he can smell Qui-Gon: earth after rain, log fire, warmth. 

The moons sail across the sky as mute witnesses.

***

The fires are reduced to fading embers by the time they return. After they greet the night watch at the entrance, they weave their way through the snoring, twitching rows of men. 

The caf mug has been picked up and placed on the natural shelf, his sleeping pad under it. Cody is gone from the fireside. 

Obi-Wan looks at Qui-Gon. Words aren’t much easier between them than they were before the lagoon, but the silence is lighter to bear. Obi-Wan lies down on his back, fully clothed and armored like everyone else. He senses more than hears Qui-Gon sitting down next to him, leaning his back on the wall of the cave. Through his eyelids, he sees Qui-Gon tipping his head back and closing eyes. The line of his throat is long and graceful.

The knowledge writhes inside Obi-Wan’s ribcage like an eel caught in a fish trap.

He expects sleep would be a long time coming, but, as his insides calm down and he drifts, Qui-Gon’s presence registers like a guarding beacon in the Force. The weariness rises like a tide. 

***

** _The River Commander’s private log, entry 226_ **

_ I chose to believe that my scheming grandmaster's words made sense because I saw an easy way to walk away. _

_Yoda could predict both of our behaviors with chilling precision. The troll must have felt so self-satisfied. _

_ I’m a thrice-cursed, proud fool._

_He shouldn’t have had to ask; I should have gone to him on my knees and pressed my forehead to the floor. _

***

The dreams may have claimed a rare winning round, but Obi-Wan’s sleep is still thin as gossamer. One sound his subconscious deems out of place, and he is blinking in the early morning light, gray and sourceless before the actual sunrise. His whole back is stiff from resting on the damp stone floor. 

Another sound. Qui-Gon, having a nightmare. Like all beings who have spent time in a warzone, Qui-Gon suppresses his reactions; his breathing comes out in heavy gasps instead of making any kind of sound.

He can remember no instance, absolutely none, of his former master having an actual, forcedamned _ nightmare. _

On the alert, he grabs Qui-Gon’s shoulder. Qui-Gon wakes up with a hand already seeking his saber, out of its holster and ignited before Qui-Gon recognizes him. They stare at each other over the humming, green blade, much darker than the one that Obi-Wan remembers.

“You think we should go and fix that misbehaving purifier?” Obi-Wan asks mildly. This isn’t something he wants to deal with in the cave full of men depending on their leadership, as used to night terrors as they all are. Qui-Gon blinks and shuts off the blade. Every man awake avoids looking at them, which just means that their poor ears must be straining themselves into knots, Obi-Wan thinks, darkly amused. 

“Pardon?”

“The faulty water purifier. I’ll get the tool kit,” he repeats to Qui-Gon, who has gotten up and is shaking debris from his clothes.

Qui-Gon follows him outside without a word, his mind clearly, visibly elsewhere. His compliance puts Obi-Wan more on edge than the actual nightmare. 

The lagoon is covered in a thick sea mist, noises warping oddly and bouncing from the surrounding, mist-hidden cliffs, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. It sounds like there’s a whole squad of men hard at it with the tank, when in truth it’s just the two of them, grunting under the weight of the equipment. At some point in the night, a shoal of lantern carriers got trapped in the lagoon, and their lights twinkle through the mist every time they break the surface with a splash. 

“I should have woken Anakin,” Obi-Wan mutters as the monstrosity finally drips on the jetty, the pump stalling and spluttering before Qui-Gon turns it off.

“Not the brightest idea if his morning habits are still unaltered,” Qui-Gon remarks. 

Obi-Wan feels an inadvertent smile pull at his lips. 

“We should be able to handle this by ourselves,” Qui-Gon continues, and somehow, _ somehow, _he doesn’t seem to mean it ironically. 

“Want to elaborate about the show we provided this morning then?” Obi-Wan asks, handing over a spanner. Qui-Gon has always been the most open at times when they were working on something side by side, private projects or cooking or kata, texts or sabers or tools requiring attention between them. 

Qui-Gon gives him a sideways glance. This little dance is so familiar, the multiple discussions they are having layer on top of each other. “You think a Jedi’s nightmares are any different than anyone else’s who is fighting in this war?” he asks back as he moves to the other side of the purifier. 

The first screws clink onto the planks. The metal is cool and slimy under Obi-Wan’s hands, his grip slippery. “You are the one who taught me diplomatic evasion tactics, Master. Question for a question is beneath you.”

Qui-Gon is silent on the other side of the large cylinder. _ Master. Mas-ter, mas-ter, mas-ter; _ Obi-Wan’s heart beats in the rhythm of the syllables. Gods, stars, this war and how it twists the deeply-buried wishes of his heart into _ tools, _ for the General to use to achieve his goals _ . _

“I was stripped from that title. I asked for it, as the long-standing Councilors very well know. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you,” Qui-Gon’s voice floats in the air, bodiless, dispassionate. 

A switch of tactics then, trying to distance and make it impersonal.

As if anything between them, even distance itself, has ever been impersonal. 

“I’m aware,” Obi-Wan admits. He grunts a little as the corroded lid gives way, prepares himself for a counter strike. “Did it occur to you that your request left me and Anakin denied, without lineage? If you are giving this back to me, don’t do it half-heartedly.” It is quite possible that he has just shot himself in the foot. 

The silence holds and holds and holds. A seabird cries in the mist, shrill and haunting. Obi-Wan holds the lid in his hands, refuses to let them shake. 

“It was never my intention to slight either of you. You --- you have surpassed my teachings and my mastery long ago,” Qui-Gon’s voice is a murmur.

“Tell me,” Obi-Wan says, and it’s not a command nor a tactic anymore, not the way the General would want it to be, but it’s not a plea either, because he fucking well _ refuses. _ “About your nightmare, about your decision, about _ anything_.” _ Don't offer me kindness as if it's a bone you throw for some pathetic-looking creature you pass on your travels and feel fleetingly sorry for. _

The mist, the gulls, the little lights and waves the shoal of fish causes, impatiently jumping at the mouth of the strait: he breathes evenly and focuses on the present. 

“The Living Force screams in dreams.” Qui-Gon’s voice has gone so low it’s hard to discern.

“...What?” The words, in that order, like in a string, but they don’t make sense in the slightest.

“There has always been an ebb in the Galaxy, back and forth, low tide and high tide, a quest for balance,” Qui-Gon begins hesitantly. “But then came this war, the losses and destruction among us, the mere scale of it, the decision to sacrifice individual beings to it. The Living Force screams, and it _ diminishes _. It shouldn’t happen, shouldn’t be possible. The horror of it feels like standing at the edge of the expanding black hole.”

Out of sight, Qui-Gon clears his throat, and everything Obi-Wan knows about the world jerks sideways, like a faulty gravity field. He doesn’t want to believe it, but whatever Qui-Gon does, he doesn’t _ lie. _He is suddenly nauseous.

“After the first battles, I knew that the position of the general would be impossible with this knowledge. I tried to make them see. I don’t know what Yoda sees in the future that’s more horrifying than this, what the Unifying Force speaks to those who are afflicted by it. I was leaving the Order.”

“Why are you still here then? Why didn’t you walk away?” Obi-Wan asks. It comes out strangled; it’s the self-preservation attempt. _ Like you have done before. Why any of us are here? What am I doing, leading these men to their deaths? _ is what he is trying to ask. He is the weapon and the shield, he serves, he has become General, that’s who he _ is, _ so that others won’t have to suffer. So that they could all go home, even if Obi-Wan’s own home turned away from him. 

What he is, is still not enough. The Order is failing. He is failing. Failing so miserably that Qui-Gon is claiming that a facet of the Force is in agony, losing to the Dark, and he hasn’t _ recognized _ it. 

Qui-Gon appears from the other side of the tank with a rust-eaten propeller. There’s a cold, intense fire in his eyes, not that different from Dooku. His presence in the Force is a hand, pushing hard on Obi-Wan’s chest. 

“Because even if the outcome is known, we take the field. I can’t stop this madness_. _It doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try to save Rudder or Hag or your Cody or any of the clones or any Tion family.” Qui-Gon closes his eyes, and breathes like the pain resides in his chest too. “I feel like we are standing on the brink of desolation when we fight for this supposed greater good. It doesn’t obviate my vows to those standing in front of me in the here and now. The Council...couldn’t trust me after this. I had to renounce my status to make them allow me do what I can, after I had already declared that I was leaving. And I ---”

The pressure lessens in the Force; the regret seeps into its place, drizzling, falling onto the fire and putting it out. “I have already walked away from so much,” Qui-Gon finishes, swallowing. He turns his head aside, and his gaze inwards. It’s a gesture Obi-Wan knows intimately; he only has to look at any reflecting surface if somebody wants to get close, and he closes the door.

“You were in the middle of it from the beginning,” Qui-Gon offers his attachments to the indifferent jetty planks, not to Obi-Wan_ , _ like he is _ ashamed, _this proud man. Obi-Wan’s proud Master. “You and Anakin. I couldn’t... not to know what would befall on you. This war seems unable to corrupt you. How Light gathers around you, triumphs in you. I...have to ask for your forgiveness. Even after everything I caused between us, I am still drawing comfort and warmth from your light, from the fact that you exist in this Galaxy.” 

Qui-Gon’s hair hangs dark and damp, and he still, _ still _refuses to look Obi-Wan in the eyes. “I did so long before the war broke out. I failed you profoundly, padawan,” he whispers. 

The bones of Obi-Wan’s ribcage splinter without a sound, the knowledge writhing out, seething. The lid falls from his hands. Qui-Gon takes a half-step back, and Obi-Wan knows his shields are rendered useless once again.

“I apologize,” Qui-Gon says hastily. “I know you weren’t expecting a tirade. I’ll go -” and oh_ , _ Qui-Gon is _ not _going to turn his back this time.

“Don't you fucking _ dare. _” Obi-Wan steps into Qui-Gon’s space without any conscious decision of moving, batting the unresisting hands and propeller out of the way. It tumbles on the rocks, bounces back and plops into the water. Neither one of them notices.

“I didn’t -” 

“Willfully blind, both of us!” Obi-Wan very nearly spits. His hands scratch the chest of Qui-Gon’s field armor for leverage.

“You-?”

“Fools, _ both _ of us! If you just had said _ anything-!” even once _ goes unvoiced when he _ yanks_, and he barely has time to register Qui-Gon’s eyes, gone wide in surprise and shock, before he crushes their mouths together. 

The warm, soft spot in the chill of the mists; Qui-Gon’s lips, unmoving and slightly open, their beards catching. The surprised little ‘oh’, the small puff of air. Besides that, Qui-Gon doesn’t move, doesn’t react.

This may be General Kenobi’s worst tactical error in a long, long time. 

“I’m terribly so-” Obi-Wan starts, already retreating, every single broken bone puncturing his lungs at once, but the large hands stop him. Qui-Gon growls, “Force, _ no_,” and brings their mouths together again. 

Their bumping noses are cold, brushing each other, before one of them changes the angle, and then the other. The jetty creaks beneath their feet them as they look for balance, pressing closer with the restless, clutching hands. Their lips slide against each other: there’s saliva and heat and friction and urgent chase after uninterrupted connection. Qui-Gon bites and soothes Obi-Wan’s lower lip in turn, sucks the cleft on his jaw, almost hidden by the beard. It’s not gentle, but _ starved_, _ everywhere at once_, and Obi-Wan moans into their joined mouths, knowing full well how the water carries the sounds for klicks. 

He is rewarded with a shudder, running through Qui-Gon’s broad frame. It’s such an unrestrained reaction from a Jedi who is still a master in everything but name. It makes Obi-Wan want to throw his head back in blatant invitation, makes him want to _ claw _his way through Qui-Gon’s armor and sink into him, into his chest and deeper and -

The armor. 

They are out here, in the open, in hostile territory, and Obi-Wan is the commanding officer so lost in himself, in them, that he has completely forgotten their surroundings.

The lantern carriers cause the loudest splash so far at the mouth of the strait; the tide has turned. 

He breaks the kiss.

“Not out here,” he means to say, but it comes out panting, startling him. “This isn’t safe, not _ here _-”

Qui-Gon’s eyes are dark, and not cold anymore. He inhales deeply and buries his face into Obi-Wan’s hair, which had been trimmed into a shorter, more practical military cut just before this campaign. His breath is hot and uneven against Obi-Wan’s scalp. 

“You’re right,” he rumbles. “I wanted...want to give you so much more than _this, here._” An amused huff. “A bed with soft, clean linens for starters. Warm and dry.” 

Obi-Wan’s means to laugh; it tries to come out as a sob instead, so he swallows it half-way, and what appears in the end is a confused hiccup. A massively dignified sound from the Jedi General of the Grand Army of the Republic. He feels Qui-Gon’s smile - wry, crooked, familiar - on his forehead. The responding snicker bubbling in his throat feels just a tiny bit hysterical. He closes his eyes. This is an open rebellion against their situation, against the state of the whole Galaxy_,_ impossible, dangerous, everything the General cannot endanger. “Glorious. Quiet,” Qui-Gon murmurs, and the Force _blazes _around them, refulgent in their defiance.

They have maybe a minute to bask in it before Obi-Wan’s comm pings. The Council is demanding their regular morning-before-the-battle briefing from their Generals.


	5. Chapter 5

The fourth time is an act of resistance.

Obi-Wan takes one look at Anakin over the large holotransmitter, where the Council members are appearing one by one, and wills calm to descend upon himself. He and Anakin have always been prone to each other’s emotions; while their thoughts are often veiled from another, he has been able to sense Anakin’s feelings from the very beginning, his agitation, his joy, his struggling, his fervour. If he is not the pacifying, solid rock for Anakin’s rapids to batter on and eventually calm down, Anakin surely will know. He is already giving him an odd look through Mace Windu’s hologram. They glower at him in unison without realizing.

It’s _ Anakin’s _ presence that steadies Obi-Wan, reminds him of his duties. All the while _ Qui-Gon _ is there - his former master the same _ deep _ \- _ forest-with-roots-centuries-old _Force presence that he remembers. But instead of soothing, Obi-Wan’s senses are suddenly reaching, restless, like a bloodhound sniffing the wind in the eve of the hunt. 

Qui-Gon has always been surprisingly good at blending into the crowd for a man of his size if he wants to, and now he obviously really doesn’t want the Council’s attention for himself. While they politely wait for Yoda to shuffle onto his seat, Obi-Wan gets a whiff of..._s__omething_...in the Force. Intense, like the smell of burnt ozone and steel, and gone in a second.

It’s not coming from Anakin.

Anger.

For old things, for the past, which shouldn’t matter to Jedi.

First nightmares, now this.

The General places his hands on the table of the transmitter. His gaze is clear. His voice is poised and sure as he begins to unravel the upcoming battle for the present Council members. Anakin takes charge of the presentation every now and then, when his responsibilities come up. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t look at Yoda. He is not turning his gaze away, or Force forbid, his head to the side, but he doesn’t _ look_. 

When Yoda’s hologram beckons Qui-Gon forward, Obi-Wan is sure - for one, stupid second that feels like the first moment of a landslide - that the Grandmaster of the Order is already preparing to lay them bare. Qui-Gon squares his shoulders and places his hands on his belt, serene, like there never was and never will be any burning steel, either in the Force or in his eyes. 

Yoda and a few other members of the Council interrogate Qui-Gon about obedience, not about the private Code, but in _ battle _of all things; about the Generals’ orders and following them, while the Generals happen to be, coincidentally, his padawans. Obi-Wan experiences something akin to the second hand embarrassment as he watches the questioning; ego should be meaningless to Jedi, but this is so beneath them. Qui-Gon names himself in the command chain without hesitation, and then bows from the waist up. “And of course, my highest orders come from the Force alone,” he concludes.

So many noisy memories and old hurts and old prides clash in Obi-Wan’s head. For a moment, he very nearly fumbles, the General at loss. Then he looks at Mace, whose face is so endlessly unimpressed that it is practically turning backwards, and at Yoda, whose ears are twitching, and snorts. The sound is not loud, but clear enough. 

Anakin’s eyebrows pursue his hairline. Obi-Wan senses how Cody shifts his weight while standing in the parade rest behind him. Not a muscle moves on Qui-Gon’s face, but oh, the smugness is there. Qui-Gon’s fondness for ruffled feathers and riled up furs is something that Obi-Wan has definitely not missed in his life. 

What he needs is another thing entirely. Obi-Wan strokes his beard to hide his mouth, remembers how Anakin grumbled about him wanting to hide that he actually smiled. 

Cody, blessed Cody, steers things forward with practicalities. The meeting ends. The inspection of the ranks follows. Their duties sweep three of them apart. The men are determined, wired, grim - not eager for battle, not for a long time anymore, only for doing their duty. The waiting heaves back and forth in the caves. Obi-Wan has thought himself above it. He has shielded himself with his ability to see the bigger picture, to distance himself. Anakin has always struggled with it. 

He has always been able to support Anakin, before.

Now he finds himself open and soaking up dirt like a fresh flesh wound. He wanders from campfire to campfire, from squad to squad, discovering minor hurts and dreary spirits, offering a small trickle of the healing Force here and a comforting word there. They burn in the Force, his men, secrets like all living beings, dogged to keep on living, connected to everyone and everything around them.

There must be a solution, an answer. Jedi serve, and if needed, willingly act as a sacrifice, but these men embrace the same duty, and nobody ever asked them. And Qui-Gon thinks that it’s destroying them all. 

When a being joins the Force, it’s a quiet, inconspicuous thing. These men don’t like attention being directed at them in general; a few hours onward in the future, some of these sparks around him will snuff out without fuss, because the Republic and its citizens, and, ultimately, their General, expect an impossible sacrifice from them.

He has to...the Council has to...the Order has to...but no. Nothing is solved, nothing clears. The Force rests, impeccable, undisturbed by Obi-Wan’s doubts, and offers nothing, not even the brightness of the earlier morning. He rises from the latest fireside - and nearly staggers over some sleeping gear. The dark, attentive eyes are immediately on him. He waves his hand and smiles in a way which he hopes is reassuring. 

What he has to do, is to find a secluded corner and sink into the Force.

The containers for their equipment and food supplies stand at the very end of the main Caves. They are taller than an average human, orderly stacked. Obi-Wan ducks behind them, leaving the small fires and wired nerves behind. The darkness of these caves, narrowing and meandering behind the repository, is alive, reeking and musty, like the breath of the giant sea beast slumbering in its nest.

Obi-Wan intends to meditate. He ends up resting his faintly aching back against the side of the outermost container and staring at the darkness with dry, itching eyes. He thinks of absences and lack of options.

He is not sure what kind of look is on his face right now, but he knows it’s better to leave it to the dark. 

He has sensed Qui-Gon approaching for a while. He could have easily hide his whereabouts.

Reckless.

“Obi-Wan?”

Not General. Not Negotiator, not savior, not invader, not Councillor. His own name sounds foreign. 

Qui-Gon is a condensed, towering shape in the near dark in front of him. Obi-Wan should turn his face; the darkness won’t be enough to conceal this, not from him, never from him.

The Force is exuding worry; Qui-Gon’s voice is subdued. “I never imagined this for you.”

Such a funny word, _ this. _It contains everything from the private, pathetic heartbreak to the actual war zones, re-shaping the whole Galaxy.

“Don’t.” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “It is what it is.” _ Not your worry. I will fracture. _ “Just say my name again.” _ Make it mine again. _

Qui-Gon’s broad figure blocks what little light gets past the containers. His hands rise, and stop, hovering over Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades. Obi-Wan leans into them. 

“Obi-Wan.” Every letter emphasized. Qui-Gon’s hands follow his outline; shoulder blades shoulders arms elbows wrists. Qui-Gon inspects his hands, turns them around and traces the lines of his palms with blunt fingers, creating goosebumps. 

“Obi-Wan.” Quieter now, more hoarse. Up again, alongside his flanks, palpating the small spaces between his curved ribs by instinct, even though there’s a thin plackard in the way. The warm touch makes him substantial. 

Their wrists and fingers are the only parts of them that are bare, besides their faces and necks. To undress the plates and coverings in the field conditions would be an act of sheer irresponsibility. Qui-Gon doesn’t suggest anything like that; somehow, that feels like a provocation to Obi-Wan.

“Not this, for you,” Qui-Gon murmurs and bends down, breathes the words into his jugular. “I imagined bright, alive things for you.”

“I’m more than capable.” Obi-Wan raises his chin, partly in defiance and partly in order to give better access. The back of his head hits the container wall. Closer, the parts of the modified armors more frustrating, more effective than any door between them. 

“I know. You are celebrated for your prowess, for your resilience. But the demand to endure anything and everything is a monstrous thing. I -” Qui-Gon stops himself and bites down, and Obi-Wan chokes down a shout, merely grunting. Moist, warm kisses follow the bite, trailing up on the side of his throat with more than a hint of teeth, making his knees go weak. 

They will see the marks. 

So he braces his weight against the container wall, raises his legs and winds them around Qui-Gon’s waist. Qui-Gon’s groan gets muffled into the vulnerable skin below Obi-Wan’s earlobe when Obi-Wan brings their hips together.

“Don’t sing tomorrow’s laments today. We are still here. Let’s make it known,” Obi-Wan whispers, and claims Qui-Gon’s mouth. _ This _ is what they have, in the here and now, and by the gods he isn’t going to waste it. The war doesn’t hand you second chances. The war doesn’t willingly hand you _ anything, _and Jedi are never supposed to take, but generals and survivors in the near dark are another thing altogether. 

The closeness of their bodies, even with layers between them, grows more frantic. The kiss starts heated and evolves into clashing teeth and intertwined tongues, slick and sliding. Qui-Gon’s hands come up to support his weight, his grip firm under Obi-Wan’s buttocks, defining him. Obi-Wan takes the power behind the act, takes Qui-Gon carrying him without trouble. He takes the kneading, he takes the low, quieted keening into his mouth. He takes, and he is so unaccustomed to it outside battlefield. He sinks his hands into Qui-Gon’s braid, holds on and twists and earns another groan, not breaking the kiss. 

They are being quiet, but not that quiet; anybody could wander behind the containers, looking for solitude and spot them instead, witness what he takes and receives, witness how they resist. The small possibility is an ache, spreading low in his abdomen.

Whoever designed the modified armors for the Jedi still had a modicum of common sense left, Obi-Wan has time to think as Qui-Gon’s hands find their way between them, searching for the hidden buttoning of their leggings. The designer probably had bodily needs in mind, but Obi-Wan doubts this is what they were thinking of enabling w - 

His thoughts come to a screeching halt as his cock springs free between his tabards, something hot and silken-hard and mouth-wateringly _ big _meeting it. His shout gets cut off almost immediately, Qui-Gon’s hand covering his mouth, pushing in. He moans around the blunt, skilled fingers, hardly believing that this exists outside a lonely bunk’s unacknowledged fantasy. The heavy smell of them, combined, fills his nostrils, sits heavy on his tongue. He lavishes the palm and fingers with his tongue, sucks, feels the saliva running from the corner of his mouth. Qui-Gon turns his head aside and closes his eyes, like Obi-Wan is suddenly something unbearably bright in the near dark. 

And then Qui-Gon’s wet hand wraps around them both and they gasp, hips jerking at the aligned connection, the rhythm faltering almost before it forms. He starts whispering Obi-Wan’s name again like a sacred mantra, like he is choking on it. He makes Obi-Wan swallow it over and over again with his stifled noises, until it once again becomes his.

***

Face takes one, instinctive look, turns on his heels and does something he has only done before in the field: he flees. He knows he has to go and make a racket; a dare, a competition, maybe even a fight, anything to keep General Skywalker occupied.


	6. Chapter 6

They lose Tion two days after the successful raid. 

For all that they took care of removing native settlements to the more secure areas, nobody suspected that there were Tion families working inside the actual garrison. Clankers and civilians are almost never combined. By the time Anakin’s Force-amplified, horrified command to “_Cease fire! _” reverberates above the troops, it’s already too late.

Two days later, as they storm into the barred command center of the garrison to find out who had bypassed the dismantled comm towers, their actions stare back at them, hatred and loss in her eyes. 

She’s seventeen. Her big brother - looking for a better lot in life under the service of the Separatist Alliance - is dead, caught in the crossfire. She straightens her back slowly, so slowly next to the overridden communication table, turns and faces the troopers’ raised blasters with colorless face and clouded eyes. The hum of their sabers is the only other sound in the room besides the distress call blaring to the skies behind her.

“You have to issue the evacuation order, now,” Qui-Gon breaks the spell, urgently, in an undertone. 

“Like we planned, Anakin,” Obi-Wan commands. The prevenient calm drapes around him. His breathing is even, his orders quiet and precise. Anakin nods shortly as he strides out without bothering to shut of his saber. 

“Sir? The prisoner?” Cody asks next to him. The girl grits her teeth and doesn’t close her eyes. 

“Search her for weapons and let her go.” Her hopeless, angry scream circulates in the room as troopers unceremoniously shove her out. The sound echoes inside him, his chest a soundboard, before he catches it and shoves it down.

Something heaves in the Force next to him; the corners of Qui-Gon’s eyes are drawn tight, etched deep.

Then they don’t have any time left. 

The evacuation is one of those times when the General takes completely over. The Republic's war propaganda so likes to blast these moments on big screens and broadcasts, the Hero with No Fear next to him in battle. The records make him recoil, whenever he has to face them, but they serve as reminders, as pieces of puzzles for him to sort out. The General has learned to sink into the Force up to the level nearing an actual, ancient battle-trance. His Force-supported mind assesses the field, attention everywhere at once, strategizing, counting the impossible odds, finding solutions in time that would be unattainable without the Force in those chaotic circumstances.

He is hyper-focused and in control, his sense of humor even drier. 

Afterwards, the clarity of memories depends on the direness of the situation. Afterwards, the tremors, when he finally, finally allows them to surface - after the Council briefings and casualty reports - are violent, exposing, requiring an absolute solitude which both the war and space lack. Ergo, more and more of late, he doesn’t bother to discharge the General after the campaigns; what’s the point of suffering through yet another withdrawal if he has to pick up soon anyway?

The last of the LAAT/is are gearing up, the engines splashing the sea water everywhere and on everyone at the same time as the first scouts appear, three innocent-looking dots in the southwest sky of the planet. Anakin stares at them from the neighbour LAAT/i’s ramp, hair flying in the wind, eyes in slits against the sun, calculating, estimating. It is a close call. _ Negotiator _ and _ Freshwater _have been hiding on the dark side of one of Tion’s smaller satellites; Anakin and Obi-Wan had debated between different uninhabited candidates, Obi-Wan ending up going along with Anakin’s hunch. It proves correct, Tion’s companion at the nearest corner in its orbit. Still, the time frame is much too tight for anyone’s liking.

Obi-Wan’s calculations fail, once; they watch, helpless, as one of the LAAT/is explodes into the soundless bolide at the fringes of Tion’s upper atmosphere. The other two are saved only by the General Kenobi’s shouted comm orders and their desperate, devil-may-care pilots. The expanding absence, left behind by the destroyed LAAT/i, hums in the Force. It rattles the General’s teeth much in the same way Tionese girl’s scream of loss had earlier, and he can’t afford this now. Beside him, Qui-Gon’s knuckles are bloodless-white as he clenches the rail. 

He missteps, once; _ Negotiator _ ends up with a partly damaged gravity field and a smoking hull, making a repair trip to Coruscant and reporting to the Council in person a necessity. Despite the damage, they manage to slink into the hyperspace under the very nose of two Separatists’ sabaoth destroyers. It’s risky, to perform a jump with a damaged hull. The General sends his senses outwards and scans and evaluates, and, because _ he can’t afford this now_, cracks a joke about certain extermination versus terrible odds over the comm to Anakin, and then everything _ pulls _ and _ wrenches. _

Qui-Gon is needed the second _ Negotiator’_s hatches close, disappearing into the post-battle-shipwreck chaos without a word. Five men shout for Obi-Wan’s attention at once, Cody among them, and the General steps up. 

***

“Obi-Wan.”

They have been in the hyperspace for hours, the situation finally under control. He is aware of the passage of time in a detached way. The General has always regarded time somewhat irrelevant: there are things he must get done, so they will get done, no matter the time it requires from him. 

“Obi-Wan.”

The General, by a strange stroke of fortune, is momentarily alone below the warping space. _Freshwater _is a formless black void next to them in the cacophony of stars.

“Obi-Wan.”

The name breaks his concentration in the middle of the damage reports and instructions for the extinguishing unit and cataloging their lost supplies left behind on Tion. The General tends to be...sardonic, when disrupted. 

“Hm. Commander?”

The smell of burnt ozone and steel, again. Much like an explosion. Much like desperation. 

Like mistakes. 

“This splitting.” Qui-Gon’s clothes smell of an extinguished fire. His voice is rough from the smoke. Rough from emotion. “Never this for you.”

Damn the man always pushing through. Damn him for using something he already gave back to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan’s means are what the war made of them. He doesn’t deserve any consolation, not after mistakes like these. He opens his mouth to argue, and no sound comes out.

“This, my men, it’s not your doing, my own.” 

The tremors, oddly, always start with his legs. He has seen enough paralysis in the war to recognize that it’s actually his spine, with its over-taxed nerve clusters and vertebrae, giving up on him. If solitude isn’t an option, he usually grabs a hold of any table in front of him. The others are usually none the wiser. 

But now it’s Qui-Gon who stands between him and the bridge’s doorway, broad, solid, impermeable, blocking him from sight. Obi-Wan notices absentmindedly that the blood hasn’t returned to Qui-Gon’s large hands, curled into fists on his sides. 

They don’t touch until Obi-Wan’s breathing is under his control, his legs steady. 

“This dichotomy in you, it’s-” Qui-Gon begins.

“Necessary,” Obi-Wan interrupts. 

“I cannot imagine what makes it so -”

“Yes. I suppose you can’t. What the Force asks from us, what we must do, is so rarely understandable from the outside.” His words are scathing, and he is interrupting _ again; _the times are certainly changing. 

“You must let me do this. You must see why, even though it’s not your way. Neither can I stand the thought of expanding darkness,” he amends, softer, _ not _pleading. 

Qui-Gon stands, and stares at him, his knuckles white, white as the paleness of his face beneath soot and oil. He nods, so small and slow it’s almost indiscernible.

“The Council sent a message. I’m not to accompany you and Anakin to Coruscant. Master Unduli requests my help at handling the Mytaranor sector‘s refugee camps.” Qui-Gon’s words are heavy, like the entire minutes they just passed in silence. Obi-Wan knows once again, after years, how to find tiredness lurking behind the words. It’s profound. “They want _ Freshwater _ to drop out at Tanaab Cardan station and continue from there.”

It could be kindness. Gods know Luminara needs kindness. 

“Tanaab’s around two hours from here in hyperspace,” Obi-Wan states blankly. Something fragile, something he has refused to even look at directly, disappears from his sight in the future.

“Obi-Wan. If you want, I_ will _find a way to you. Whenever the Force allows,” Qui-Gon’s words are soft. In the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan sees how one of his men stops Qui-Gon’s Captain - Rudder, yes, that was it - at the doorway. His man whispers something and guides the frowning captain back in the corridor, allowing them the truest rarity in space: privacy.

“You should, uh-” something catches in his throat, and he coughs, “you should at least try to go and find Anakin. After all that smoke you inhaled, he would like to take a look at that prosthetic of yours.” He offers a small smile. “You know how he can’t resist tinkering. Lure him in.” 

Qui-Gon cocks his head to side, accepting Obi-Wan’s evasion, smiling the familiar half-smile back to him, except that now it’s resigned. “If you think so.” 

He is about to turn away when Obi-Wan’s treacherous mouth suddenly decides to function, because he can’t take that, can’t walk back to the battle with that brittleness in Qui-Gon’s smile. “You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Promise something like that. Nothing is more useless in the war than the promise of something ‘later.’ As long as the war isn't won, all we have is the here and now, like you taught me.” _ And as long as we are who we are. _

Qui-Gon looks at him, eyes bright and calm like early mornings at the sea. “Yet I just did. It’s yours, as futile as it is. ” 

Obi-Wan takes the two steps that are separating them. He presses into Qui-Gon’s chest with unnecessary force. The air escapes from Qui-Gon’s lungs with a little grunt. He winds his arms firmly around Obi-Wan. 

“I’ll take it. You better keep your word,” he rasps into Qui-Gon’s clavicle. Qui-Gon buries his face into Obi-Wan’s hair and breathes; a gesture that has already become theirs in a ridiculously short span of time.

The last, lingering kiss on his forehead; tender and aching, like the previously malaligned joint after resetting the bone. 

***

Face glimpses General Skywalker escorting Commander Jinn to the transfer vessel on Tanaab station. He waits until it’s late at night in _ Negotiator’_s messed up hyperspace cycle, trades his watch, fetches a cup of foul herb water from the disgruntled, harried quartermaster and approaches the bridge. General is a lean shadow against the streaking vortex of stars, precisely like Face anticipated. He stands, his hands clasped behind his back as usual; it takes Face a little while to recognize something new. 

There’s something - not relaxed, not even close, but something has eased in General’s pose. 

“Trooper,” General acknowledges him. “Face, isn’t it? Is your aid on?”

“Yes sir.” He presents the lukewarm cup, feeling cumbersome next to General’s more slender frame. “Commander sent me.” It’s not a lie, from a certain point of view: if Commander knew that General hasn’t slept, or eaten, he would definitely send Face. Or would come himself. He is still busy on the port side deck though. 

“Thank you.” General accepts the cup and raises it to his lips. Face salutes and begins to turn. 

“I have found,” General talks to Face’s back, “several reasons to be grateful to you lately, _ vod _Face.” General sips his tea and watches the space twisting around itself; a dizzying concept, especially added to the tinnitus in Face’s ears. Face doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t understand what General is referring to. 

“Just displaying common decency, sir.”

“And, in the name of common decency, did you want to go with Commander Jinn, trooper? You wouldn’t stand out so much in his Company, as valuably as you serve in my troops.”

“Kind of you to say, sir. My duty is here.” Face can’t deny that the thought crossed his mind once or twice. 

“Ah, yes.” General takes another sip. The warping stars paint him in blues and blacks. He makes a funny, small gesture with his free hand, and the ringing in Face’s ears quietens. “Our duty.” 

***

**The River Commander’s private log, entry 240/copy/reroute/public/GARthirdsystem/Coruscant/Ngttr/general/Kenobi/incoming/**

_ Obi-Wan, _

_ The situation in Mytaranor’s camps has reached the point of humanitarian crisis. Master Unduli decided to put my experience to better use, and has sent me to negotiate in the Senate about the relocation of refugees to new asylum planets. _

_ Freshwater is arriving at Coruscant approximately in three galactic calendar days. _

_ When the Force allows, _

_ QGJ _

**The General’s (212th Battalion) private log, entry 605/copy/reroute/public/GAR12thsector/Frshwtr/commander/Jinn/replies/**

_ Qui-Gon, _

_ The estimate of Negotiator’s repairs is one galactic calendar week. I also have War Council duties I must attend to. The Senate committees nowadays are probably even more time-consuming than you remember. This leaves us a time frame maybe around 18-24 hours before Negotiator is shipping out. _

_ When the Force allows, _

_ OWK _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time the urge to write a smutty angsty PWF (porn with feels) seizes me, I will write an oneshot sequel about those 18 hours. Probably gonna name it Lovers in a Dangerous Time or something else equally cheesy. :p


End file.
